Getting the Scoop
by Burnedtoasty
Summary: G1/G2: The human perspective on Autobots told from talk shows, news casts, frontline journalists, and newpapers.
1. The Right to Information

**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended._

**Continuity**: Generation One (G1) Cartoon-verse

**Characters**: Air Raid, Bluestreak, Bumblebee, Carly, Chip Chase, Cliffumper, Fireflight, First Aid, Grapple, Grimlock, Hoist, Ironhide, Jazz, Marissa Faireborn, Mirage, Original charcters (news, paparazzi, anchors, journalists, et cetera) Optimus Prime, Perceptor, Powerglide, Prowl, Ratchet, Red Alert, Sideswipe, Silverbolt, Skydive, Skyfire, Slag, Slingshot, Sludge, Smokescreen, Snarl, Sparkplug Witwicky, Spike Witwicky, Sunstreaker, Swoop, Tracks, Wheeljack.

**Warnings**: None. This may be subject to change. The cautions will be updated, and the page that contains the content will have a boldface warning.

**Author's Note**: Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

EDIT: Waaaah. Typos, they haunt me. Thank you to Jason M. Lee for pointing the errors out. Apologies. This is what I get for not bothering to do more than skim.

--

"All I'm saying is, what do we really know about them? How do we really know that there's this huge, uh, and I quote, 'intergalactic space war' going on?" Tom leaned back in his chair until it creaked, thrusting one finger on top of a sizeable stack of papers before him. His bright, intelligent eyes flicked to the camera, as if sharing a deep secret with the audience, and something that might have been a sympathetic smile crossed his lips. "They're not exactly cooperative with giving the details."

A sharp round of laughter, distinctly female, greeted his statement. His associate, a dirty blonde possessing a somewhat pugged nose, folded her arms delicately before her, though her gaze was not so soft as her posture suggested. "Are you suggesting a conspiracy theory? Have you even seen the news? Nine times out of ten, you're watching them blow each other up on the six o'clock—"

Tom surged forward, and the poke became a slap, cutting off Kathy with a startled coo. "But none of them _die_. Hasn't anyone else noticed that? More of them just keep showing up." He shook his head, despairingly, and softened his voice to a confidential croon. "We get a census, courtesy of the government, and it has a very small, specific number on it. But, lo and behold, a few weeks later, there's a new one. Call in the baby shower! It's a fire-breather! Are we just supposed to shrug this off? Let them just destroy our streets, and – did you, did you see that on, uh, Tuesday, was it? Channel seven? Eight mil in damages those leeches are claiming. And don't even get me _started_ on what the U.N. is on about with the international 'attacks'. Honestly. They act like we're their keepers. What are we supposed to do about giant insects in Bali? We've got enough problems over here. God knows how long until they go off trying to 'convert' our cities again… No, this is a problem, and we need answers, we need solutions. And we're not getting them from that Prime. What did he tell us? It was none of our business?"

"Ah. Wait. You're taking things out of context now." Kathy wagged her finger admonishingly, even as Tom again glanced at the camera, rolling his eyes. "Don't scaremonger – we've been given legitimate and reasonable explanations whenever we want, and on several occasions, Optrimus—"

"Optimus." He corrected, with a dazzling, enhanced white smile.

"_Optimus_ Prime, thank you, has met with the media." Kathy, point made, graced him with a smug look, refusing to lose her on-screen cool. "They interviewed a short while, with his lieutenants. They're quite approachable, and have been on friendly terms with the news since they first emerged."

"A short list of friendlies, though. CNN once, Fox another time. I think once they spoke to a science magazine. Big wigs are certainly keeping it in the family." A pause, the shuffling of paper, and he all but crowed as he came upon what he sought. "Last week, did you see that? Can you believe this? Fire. Breathing. Dinosaurs. What was the explanation for _that_?"

Kathy grimaced, her lips turning into a thin line of red. "Well, they, it isn't as if—" She sighed. "I'm certain there is a reasonable answer. They are not entirely familiar with earth culture. Maybe they simply… saw the wrong sci-fi show."

Pressing his advantage, Tom's benign smile widened, broadened, toothy as a shark. "I just want to know – this is a war. At least it's supposed to be. But I have yet to see _one_ of these things go 'boom'."

Uncertainly, Kathy consulted her notes. "Well…"

Before she could find the proper notes, her co-anchor rocked forward, chair squeaking in protest of the sudden motion. "And another thing that's been bothering me. The Decepticons – and I swear that _has_ to be a joke – are the, allegedly, are the 'evil' ones. But the way I've seen it, it's _both_ sides responsible for the destruction. I watch the news and I honestly can't tell the difference."

"That's not entirely fair. There is collateral damage to consider, after all."

Immediately, Tom's jovial, bantering mood melted away. "People are being killed."

"People need to learn to move out of the way, instead of gawking and taking pictures." Kathy snapped back, perhaps a bit too sharply. Her face softened, and her tone changed, warming. "Of course, our heartfelt condolences for the families of those lost. As you know, our network has started a charity fund for victims of the crossfire. Please see our website for information on how to contact our volunteers, and find out what you can do to help."

Tom nodded along, his head bobbing in time with the familiar rhythm. "As always, we're more than ready to help families rebuild their lives and families." The words by rote completed, he went back on his verbal attack, as if there hadn't been a lull at all. "But, we're giving them room and board for this. And what do we get for giving away our resources, putting ourselves at risk? A few tidbits of technology – when they promised share and share alike when they first popped up – and a war we don't want and can't afford. Do you know what my taxes are like, now? Oregon has almost no property value. It's devastating the economy. I had to move to the Washington border, just for the sake of my children. It's terrifying, watching them go off in the morning, and wondering what might happen."

"It _is_ scary. For everyone. The Autobots are doing all they can. They can't take responsibility for what the Decepticons do, any more than we can be blamed about what happens in, in Russia, or the Middle East, or China."

Tom frowned, fiddling with his pen. He dropped his gaze, almost a school boy's pout, before he looked half at Kathy, half at the audience, and said, "Now, it seems like they should take responsibility. They did, after all, bring them here."

The pouty rouged lips drew thin again. "What are you driving at?"

Sighing again, Tom let the pen drop, again settling back into his chair. He swiveled back and forth for a few moments, gathering words and attention, fingers steepled below his strong chin. He nodded, sagely, and gifted Kathy with a sardonic, pained grin. "Oh, I don't know. It all just seems too simple. And I can't help but think, free resources, a nice planet like ours. Clearly we're way out of their technological ballpark. Helpless. Who knows what they might actually be doing, if this isn't just one big charade."

"… don't tell me you're saying 'invasion'."

"More of these things are showing up every week. They're asking permission to survey large areas of our world, taking our fuels, accessing our top scientists—" He broke off, as if he had not meant for the words to slip.

Sensing opportunity, Kathy surged forward, waggling her index finger again. "Ah, ah, no. Our scientists are accessing them, and you know it. They were invited every time."

Tom smirked, tapping his bottom lip with his pinkies, hands still clasped piously. "Did they invite their friends to Fujiama's? You know his company almost crashed after that. We lost some good people in that attack, and one of our top research facilities. All because he trusted the Autobots to guard him." He glanced again toward the camera. "Odd that they didn't pick up on the Decepticons coming. Or were able to repel them, like they said they would."

Nervous, ringless fingers wrapped together, and Kathy's cool smile froze into place. "He should have known better than to advertise like that. He even had _TV_ spots. Quite honestly, he was all but asking for it."

Tom rolled his eyes back to her, dazzling smirk shining bright and clear again. "In any case, it all seems a little too suspect. A little too straightforward. Did you know, and I have the newspaper here somewhere…" a shuffling of many papers. "Ah, here we go. 'An elderly Washingtonian couple espy robotic tryst.' Boldface, front page. Had a picture, evidently, but it was never released."

Kathy uttered a short sputter of startled laughter. She blinked owlishly at his smug countenance, shocked. "W-what?" she asked, disbelief and incredulous laughter coloring her voice.

"Tryst. They described it as, ah," Tom wagged his eyebrows, mischievous to the core of him, "'_romantic'_ in nature."

Kathy chuckled, albeit nervously. "Oh, God. Are you trying to go paparazzi on me? Are we going to be reading articles from '_People'_ now?" She tossed her head dismissively, hair barely moving from its perfect mould. "So they might be, erm, loving, sexual beings. We can't begrudge them that. And, honestly, it's silly. Why is it that we all act so surprised when we find out someone has, when celebrities hook up?"

"_I_ think it's a big deal when it's between the baddies and the good guys."

A hesitation. "If I may?"

"By all means, read it from yourself." He tossed the clean newspaper to her, graciously giving her time to scan through the article. He nodded as her eyes grew round and wide, and her fingers tightened slightly on the grey-white paper, crumpling the edges. "Quite a story, eh?"

She shook her pretty head, not quite denying it. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and tried once more, "… They were the only witnesses, allegedly. How can we know this is even true? You know what people will do for their fifteen minutes these days."

"Looks pretty legit to me." Tom said, shrugging. "They went through a lot of trouble to keep it quiet, going way out into those hills, out of the way. Keeping away from their kind, or from us, though?" When Kathy didn't immediately rise up with a point, her gaze still locked on the small town newspaper, he continued gallantly. "There's evidence of a large _something_ rolling around up there. Gouges in the grass, lawns torn up. Scorch marks. Seems suspicious, that they'd be hooking up even though there's this, uhm, 'bad fuel' between them, I suppose."

"They could have been fighting. We don't have all the facts." Kathy said eventually, not entirely convinced herself.

"We don't. That's my point exactly."

"You sound more and more like you're from the '_Enquirer'_. Last I checked, this was a logical, informed debate program." She redirected, frowning sternly as she slipped into the accustomed role.

"It still is. I'm arguing my point." Tom replied, utterly composed. He, too, knew his role, and played it well.

"You're using shady facts and dancing around context. It sounds paranoid."

"I'm being a bit pessimistic, I'll admit that. But isn't it better to at least question things a little before just jumping on the happy-robot-love-train? Ah. Speaking of which, did you hear about the, uh, 'incident' at the train station?"

"That was a lot of hype. I doubt very much that erm," Her note cards were consulted, "'Astrotrain' was doing what we assumed he was doing. Their anatomy is much different from ours. We think. How do we know that they are even _capable_ of, can, that they are _interested_ in things like that?"

Tom grinned, mimicking her distinctive finger waggle. "You're contradicting yourself."

"Look, we don't know that much about their culture. We have inside people looking—"

"You mean that kid and his mechanic father? Reliable sources. Completely reliable." Anticipating the turn in conversation, Tom hefted up a file two finger widths thick, yellowed with age. On the front, a young, brown haired man stared boldly at the camera, construction equipment piled high behind him. His pants and shirt were splattered with mud, and a jackhammer rested against his hip, gripped confidently with one hand. "Did you know, heh, '_Sparkplug'_ Witwicky did not even finish high school? Dropped out sophomore year. Not that he wouldn't have flunked, according to my sources. Apparently was a bit of wild child in his day. Had quite a record before he got hooked into teenage fatherhood."

Kathy's face devolved into a hard glare. "That was in poor taste, and has no relevance in this argument."

"Sorry," He said, and sounded anything but, "I'm just saying, how can we trust these people? They weren't publically elected. We barely see them. They were never evaluated. Who knows how that kid's mind is warping."

Her eyes narrowed. "Warping?"

"How is he socializing? He's with these, the Autobots every day, if the news is accurate, and has been photographed on numerous occasions in the middle of skirmishes. It's a wonder he hasn't been killed yet. Did you know he was pulled out of high school, now? Home schooled, supposedly." He put a firm palm down on the stack of paper, daring Kathy to question his facts. "It's not fair to this Spike Witwicky, and not fair to the public. We should have experts, analysts, working on this, not teenagers and their dr— fathers."

"We tried that once. The analysts were refused."

"Hm. Right. No worries there."

Drawing in a deep breath, Kathy calmly stated, "There are other people working with the Autobots. The government, despite what you claim, has been sharing many aspects of this new technology to the leading engineers, and is preparing it for everyday life. We might have flying cars in a few years."

"Will the cars be talking back by then, or do we have to get an upgrade for that?"

"Ha, ha." She rolled her eyes, "Chip Chase – featured here last month – as you know, has been in close contact with the Autobots as well. His intellectual merit is beyond question."

Tom paused, reluctant to agree. "But he's not there often. And have you seen how many attacks have been made on him? And here's the kicker; it's not even always by the Decepticons."

"Anti-Autobot groups?" Kathy asked, having already scrolled through the news story. "Terrorists disguised as protestors."

"Did you know the Decepticons have a fanbase? A _fanbase_." Tom barked out a laugh. "These are strange days."

"That's not— what?" Kathy blinked. "That's insane."

"Yes. A fanbase. Teenagers, mostly, but it's a growing phenomena. They make bloody _pilgrimages_. They tattoo on the symbol, somewhere visible, on their faces, even. Air show turn outs have tripled, if not quadrupled, since those, erm, 'Seekers' showed up to that Blue Angels routine. Kids are breaching the 'no crossing zone' into Autobot voided areas to raid. They go to recent Decepticon attack sites, and pick up the rubble to take home and do God knows what with. And they're _violent_."

"We… everybody goes through a stage, and, my God, don't they watch the news?" Kathy cut herself off, gathering herself again. "Kids are kids. They're just a little, a little confused, maybe. There's that rebellion vibe, perhaps. Anti-heroes and suchlike."

"But there are adults in it, too," Tom grimaced. "Can you believe it? They even have their own holiday they're petitioning to be put on the calendar. Day of the Decepticons, marking the first day they attacked earth." He glanced at his watch, and sucked in a startled breath. "Oh, sorry, tangent. I'll just drag the conversation back to the point."

"Tom, we _are_ on a point—"

"How can we trust them?" He overrode her voice, determined to get the last word. "We know next to nothing about them. They won't talk to us. Why not? That's what I want to know."

Realizing his ploy, Kathy took care to enunciate loudly and clearly. "We've talked to them on numerous occasions. Anywhere you look, you can find copies of Optimus' speeches."

"You've said that. I've seen Optimus. I've seen the, uh, Datsun guy. Skulk. Lurk. Stalk. Whatever his name was. I've listened to what they've said. I haven't _heard_ much from either, just apologies and hedging. We need someone to come in, and _really_ talk to us. Tell us the truth, where they come from, why here, everything. The public deserves this much, with all the suffering they've gone through. We have a right to know."

Something flinty and short tempered flashed in Kathy's eyes. "You know what, Tom? I think that would be just bloody fine. I would love to see them squash your scaremongering."

His returning grin was cheeky and easy. "Sounds like a challenge."

"It is." She turned to the camera, laying back on the charm. "But, we're out of time. This has been Katherine Montgomery—"

"— And Tom Carthue."

"_Real Time_, signing off."


	2. Traffic Laws Apply

**Disclaimer**: _I, in no way, shape, or form, own the Transformers© franchise or the characters it contains. All publicly recognizable characters are copyrighted to Hasbro, and the respective artists/writers/et cetera. No infringement intended._

**Continuity**: Generation One (G1)

**Characters**: Humans

**Warnings**: mild violence.

**Author's Note**: Criticism encouraged, technical points preferable.

--

"Oh my God, I swear, I swear you're doing this to drive me over the edge," Martha, flailing blindly behind her seat, let forth a string of obscenities. The car swerved slightly, listing toward the middle lane, before she hastily yanked it back on track, whilst fellow drivers cautiously drew off, casting her dirty looks as they passed. "Laura, Laura Jane, you give that back, you give that back to him right now!"

"But it's _mine_, it is, and Owen took it!" The eight-year-old screeched, yanking alternatively on the doll and her younger brother's hair. The toddler wailed, stubby hands clenched tight around the torso of the cheap McDonald's toy. His mostly toothless mouth opened wide, and released a shriek that surely trailed into the supersonic. All other occupants of the car winced collectively, grinding teeth together in a fashion most unhealthy.

"I don't _care_! I do not care. Just give it back," Martha snarled, attempting to both drive and referee her two children.

"But it's _mi_—"

At last the reaching hand connected, and the forty-something (thirty if you asked) woman crowed in triumph. "You're older. You have more toys at home."

"But I don't have _this_ one! You always let him have everything!" Laura's voice steadily rose in pitch, the last nigh unintelligible.

"Laura, stop whining, I hate it when you whine. Now for God's sake, just let him have the damn toy!"

"Owen whines, Owen whines all the time. You never yell at him! Never! Even when he broke my pony toys!" With righteous indignation, Laura pulled back with all her strength, twisting to avoid the awkward swat aimed at her forearm, and at last, the toy pulled free. There was a brief lull, a moment of silence well known to any parent, before Owen threw back his head, and began a long, hitching sob-howl.

"Oh, for the love of—"

"_Waaah-yuhuh-yuhuh-yaaaaa_!" He went blotchy red, various liquids beginning to seep from ever orifice of his face. Little chubby fingers clawed at his sister, pulling with cruel, mindless strength at her hair. The girl shrieked, 

wrapping both hands over the tiny wrists. Her eyes went wide with shock and pain, and she began to bawl, digging her thankfully blunted fingernails into his skin. The oscillating blubbering rose in pitch, coming to an unbearable level.

"Ow! Mom, mom, ow, Owen's _hurting_ me! Mom! Mom! Stop it! Mom!"

"He doesn't know what he's doing, he's just a baby," Martha hollered, on the verge of pulling over to deal with this situation. "Just give it _back_, Laura. And don't you dare hit him!"

"No! No! No!" Laura paused briefly to snuffle pathetically, "No!"

"_Waaaaaah-aahh, ahhh, yuwa, yuwa, uuhhh_!"

"Oh, for chrissakes, can't you ever behave? Can't I have just one, little moment of peace before you—"

The car made a curious squeal as it was sent spinning, hopping like a mad top across the pitted tarmac. Martha was thrown from side to side against a straining seatbelt, her head cracking forward into the oncoming air bag. From behind, the wails became twin bleats of panic, and the slightly wet sound of bodies colliding. Martha's stomach turned, her body twisting about as she tried to fling herself backward, to cover her children—

It happened so fast, too fast to scream.

The second strike came from the side, crushing the passenger side in, pinning her arm between the seats. The car rolled the other way, skidding and flipping about until it landed on its top, leaving its passengers hanging against the seatbelts. The third strike was a direct collision, a nice SUV compacting the back of her bumper into a neat little concave pit. Something popped ominously from within Martha's arm, and the radio spluttered, and then she found the time to scream.

Gasping for breath, she seized her upper arm, an odd rattle bubbling up from the back of her throat, somewhere between a croak and a sob. She closed her eyes tight, mouth contorting into a white, jagged line. Sucking in great gulps of air – nearly choking on the smoke – she began to pull her limp arm through, brackish streams of mascara running into her hair. Whimpering and moaning, she managed to free herself, clutching the broken limb to her chest and biting her knuckles to keep from shrieking again.

"Ki's?" She managed from around her impromptu bit, shaking from the pain. She had though adrenaline wouldn't let you feel it, the panic of a mother giving her the strength of ten men.

She didn't feel very strong.

"Lawie? 'Wen?" Martha strained to see into the back seat, feeling an odd tingle between her shoulder blades. She peered over the partially crushed driver's seat, quivering.

"Mom, mom, mommy," Laura's muted voice floated up, sounding dazed and frightened. "Mommy, I can't move, mommy, mum, please, mum…"

"It's okay sweetie, it's okay, it's okay," Martha mustered as much confidence as she could. Her back hurt. Whiplash? Oh, God, everything hurt. "Can, can you see Owen, hun?"

He wasn't crying. He was a toddler. He had to be crying.

"Yeah."

Oh, God, it was so quiet.

"Is he okay?"

Oh God.

"I don't know."

"Honey, baby, please, can you look, for mommy?"

"Yeah." A pause, shuffling. "Mom," A small note of alarm, a need for comfort.

"What? What's going on? What happened?"

"Mom, Owen's not moving."

--

Martha, with her undamaged hand, held Laura flush against her side, the two seated on the bumper of the rescue vehicle. The paramedic had already moved on, a garish figure of bright orange among the ruined cars. Somewhere – as far from her daughter as possible – white sheets covered vague lumps, and toes with tags proclaiming identity were to be found.

Laura sniveled slightly, turning her face to press it against her mother's side. "I wanna go home," she said, words muffled by the wooly coat.

"I know," Martha replied, rubbing her daughter's shoulder. "Shh, shh, we'll go home soon. Just as soon as they… as soon as Owen gets back."

"…'Kay." Another pause, and, softly, "'m sorry. Owen can have the toy."

Wordless, Martha squeezed Laura's shoulder, trying to wipe her eyes with her shoulder. Nearby, a news crew picked its way through the devastation, the anchor staring resolutely into the camera lens.

"… leaving four dead, and twelve wounded. The scene is horrific," The newswoman hesitated, listening. "Yes, traffic will be delayed while the wreckage is cleared. It is recommended that commuters take an alternate route." Another long silence. "No, no. The police are not making any statements at this time, but several drivers have confirmed; the symbols on the cars were Autobot."


	3. Public Defamation

****Warning**:

I was handed one of _those_ pamphlets a while back; you know the ones that say the world will end soon, fire and brimstone, burn-the-unbelievers, et cetera? Yeah. Pulled some inspiration from it. So, just so we're clear and good: no, I am _not_ trying to upset anyone. It's fanfiction. It's a story. Exploring a facet of the G1 world. Please, don't take offense over this, if you start to feel inclined to – that's the last thing in the world that I want to do. Maybe this is being marginally paranoid, but I'm just trying to nip it in the bud before it can even think of becoming an issue.

* * *

*'_Vibe'_ is an unsolicited reader-submitted weekly article, and does not wholly represent the views or opinions of _Real Time_™, the Faux Network, or all its staff and affiliates. All opinions therein are solely the property of the submittee, and _Real Time_™ cannot guarantee the accuracy, completeness, or expertise of said opinions.

* * *

Oct. 19th, 1989

**In Regards to the Proposed Billing of the Unification Act:**

DEAREST READER, do not be alarmed. Though my silence regarding the topic at hand has, indeed, generated unrest, do not think me taken in by such slyness. No, my friends, do not believe these censured media dogs and their madman gibberings. I have thought of this, long, and hard, and found myself at a most stunning revelation.

Do not lose faith, reader. Do not let these metal men lead you to doubt and skepticism. Amazing though they may be, these are mere constructs; advanced, yes, terribly, awfully, _repugnantly_ advanced, but still cold, lifeless, and soulless machinery. Are we not the most beloved of God? Did He not make us in his image, and grace us with a heart that beats, warm blood in our veins, and souls with which we shall ascend to His loving embrace? No, dear reader, do not fear the mutters of the unblessed. They are but fools, heathens lost with gaping mouths and blinking eyes towards the heavens, knowing not what they perceive.

But I know. I have realized, with much thought and long contemplation, the Truth of the matter.

It is a test, dear ones. The Lord, in all His wisdom, has allowed these golem-constructs, these mockeries of life to come among us, to weed the weak from the herd. Question not your faith! We are best and beloved of our God, our Shepard, first among His children. Are they not fashioned in our images? Do they not express simple, base rages of temper? For all their technology, they are but _machines_! They are soulless, they are _cast out_, and they shall not know the love of a true God.

We may fear what we do not understand, but we shall not let our faith waver. Not in the face of this moral travesty, nor any other.

Some have called out in disbelief, in query, expecting answer. But when has the Lord ever let slip His grand, cosmic designs to mere mortals? We are but flesh, molded by His guiding hand.

Some have given up, denounced their faith at the first trembling of unease, deemed it worthless and false when these modern-day Goliaths first set their heinous gaze upon Earth. They cry _foul_ on the cosmos, when their dwellings have fallen. They scream obscene slander when monetary gains and material possessions are lost. They weep and moan and despair as beloved ones pass on into the higher ethers.

But do not lose faith, dearest. Do not lose hope.

Look in the face of these monstrosities, and decry them for what they are.

Abominations.

Fiends.

_Monsters_.

With vitriol and venom, we will show them we are not afraid, we have not lost our way. We will bare the light of God upon them and they _shall know fear_. They may rage, and their wrath will be terrible to behold. And they may beseech us, flatter us with platitudes and the Devil's tricks, appeal with gentled eyes of lambs to those who would lend an ear to such deceits, but we will know them for what they are. Lambskin is only pelt, and dark forces move beneath such innocuous fronts.

But we have seen, and we know such wickedness for what it is. Oh, yes, we have seen its like before, in ages past. Sodom. Gomorrah. In the hearts of a thousand sinners, yes, we know it.

Come and join myself and others in formal protest on October the 23rd before the seat of government in DC, and let our voices be heard! Unite together with holy hands and in awe and worship, _condemn them_. Rise up! Scream, 'no!', and do not let a blind eye be turned to this unholy union. We do not need them, and we do not want them. For whatever dark designs our leaders have been taken in, and we must call the wolf out from the fold, we must make this evil known!

Do not lose hope, dearest reader. Let not these beasts take the light from you.

_Do not lose Faith._

A Vigilant Citizen,  
_Dustin Friedleman_


End file.
